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Blast Furnace BBQ
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Monday December 25, 2017
In the Southern USA, we like our BBQ. It is our pinnacle of culinary achievements. It is, good. It does not translate.
Yesterday I asked the boys to start a fire in the smoker. I was delayed in bringing out the meat, so I figured the fire would have died down a bit, resulting in the desired 250F temperature I was shooting for. I wanted to smoke some ribs and take my time doing it, giving the meat a chance to get smoky, and tender. When I opened the door of the smoker, I was assaulted by temperatures that easily exceeded 500F. If we had had a grill thermometer, it would have been pegged and quite possibly damaged, if not melted.
This happened about nine years ago as well. At that time Rolman built the fire and had no concept of slow cooking. We turned six chickens into charcoal briquettes, in the span of 35 minutes.
So yesterday I put the ribs in, choked off the exhaust and minimized the air supply as best I could. It was too hot to begin with, but I figured the flames would die down soon enough without enough air to keep it going.
An hour later I opened the door again, only to find the same extreme heat burning my face. Turns out that one of the boys had stoked the fire, and added fresh wood. The box that I have for the fire is about six feet long. At the end is where the smoke rises and the meat lies on wire racks. One of the boys decided that the meat needed direct flame, so he put the burning wood directly beneath the ribs.
I removed the blackened ribs and finished them in our gas oven, at the lowest temperature it was capable of. Thankfully the ribs were saved before it reached charcoal status, and hopefully the boys know that after ten minutes of my griping, that they know I'm just trying to cook meat, not melt iron.
These kids are awesome, God is good.
by Mark on Monday December 25, 2017
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